Yeah. That's probably what Lisa Douglas would have done. Called for her mister, Oliver Wendell Douglas, to come to her rescue. Then he would have called Eb. And before Eb came in from tending to Eleanor the cow, Mr. Haney would have pulled up in the front yard. Just in time for Arnold Ziffel to root his way through the front door, right before Fred Ziffel came looking for him, in a hurry to get him back before wife Doris missed her pig-child. In the meantime, disrupting the work of Alf and Ralph Monroe on the bedroom closet door.
Where was I? Oh. My latest crisis. I went to the sink for some tasty well water, and beheld a horror at the bottom, in the sink strainer dealybobber, which I rarely keep in place, instead preferring it to rest on the counter, a peccadillo lost on Farmer H, who plops it back onto the drain, where it catches all manner of flotsam that he tries to run down the drain, but not really...because he put the strainer in. But this crisis was not due to Farmer H's laziness in scraping the food from his plate, or the feathers from his fresh chicken eggs. This crisis was a critter.
A gargantuan Daddy Long Legs lay at the bottom of my sink, his gams splayed across my strainer like the tentacles of an anorexic octopus. He was the long-leggedest Daddy Long Legs who ever legged. I swear his gam-span was eight inches from the foot of one leg to the foot of the opposite leg.
I couldn't just run him down the sink. Because he was in the strainer. And I couldn't dump him out of the strainer, because he could molest my hand with his legs. What to do, what to do? I called for the #1 son. Explained the situation.
"Come kill it for me."
"Uh uh. Not gonna happen."
Dang! I grabbed the sprayer. Sprayed that Daddy like Johnny Knoxville with a fire hose. That enabled me to grab the strainer. But Daddy held on! I could not wash him down the sink, because the hole has its own built in segment thingamajig, and Daddy's spherical body would not go through the hole segments. I snatched up that strainer by the edge and thump thump thumped it on the side of the wastebasket.
I know he dried out like Otis in Andy Taylor's jail cell overnight. Faster, too. He's probably long-legging himself all around the upstairs right now.
I hope the first item on his agenda is to drop in on the #1 son.